The Art of Seduction: You Don't Possess It
by SwedishKiss
Summary: Jake is head over heels for Brooke, but in order to win her heart he must enlist the aid of his archnemisis, Peyton Sawyer. Haley, Nathan, and Lucas will be involved in later chapters to weave an even more tangled web.
1. Default Chapter

Author's note: I did a minor revamping of the story by erasing Jenny's existence completely. I adore Jenny on the show, but I didn't feel that Peyton's affection for Jake should be based on his love for his daughter. Jenny just doesn't mesh properly with the plot, since Peyton has been lusting after Jake since kindergarten. Sadly, this removes all possibility of Nikki attempting to waltz back into Jake's life in order to be there for "her daughter," and the Brooke/Nikki friendship, which raised many an eyebrow from sheer bafflement. Brooke and Bar Slut? What the hell?! Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoy!  
  
I despised her. From the tips of my auburn curls to the very blood coursing through the veins in my toes, all I felt for Peyton Sawyer was the purest loathing. Yet, there she was, lounging luxuriously across my worn-in and broken-down couch, casually sipping the punch I had hastily prepared prior to her arrival (shame I'd misplaced the cyanide capsules), and I was powerless to retaliate.  
  
After all, I had invited the vampire into my home of my own volition. Thus, vampire-human relations protocol demanded I be reduced to my current state of absolute vulnerability. Mechanically, she drained her cup (simultaneously absorbing my essence), addressing me with the merest hint of concern, "Are you sure you can survive this? We still have," she fumbled awkwardly through the mountain of DVDs littering the carpet, the arm of the couch, and every available space, "seventeen more seasons to go."  
  
I gulped audibly, but cheered considerably at Peyton's agonized expression. I wasn't enough of a gentleman to surrender my hatred of the lady simply because she had agreed to do me a miniscule favor... namely, joining me in an All My Children marathon, which would enable me to impress her best friend (the stunning Brooke Davis) with my soap opera prowess.  
  
"How could one woman give birth to all these children? Don't women reach a certain point when childbearing begins to decay the reproductive organs?"  
  
Peyton scoffed at what she christened my 'typical-high-school-boy- mentality' in an unnecessarily offensive manner. I didn't bother to remind her that I knew enough about reproductive organs to appreciate the value of HBO at two in the morning. In a small town, where the options of finding suitable birds/bees was regrettably slim, and, let's be honest, generally negligible, Skinemax "films" were all that ensured a man's continued protection from premature sanility.  
  
"Unfortunately, no. That would certainly solve China's slight population problem though. If you ask me, we could achieve world peace if certain individuals of the female persuasion were born without uteruses. Take her for instance," dramatically she indicated the swooning starlet launching into an obnoxious fit of hysterics, "if only the woman responsible for popping out all of these psychos had been an advocate of abortion, I wouldn't be wasting five minutes of my life listening to her bitch about her half brother cheating on her with the pizza man's second cousin's goddaughter's college roommate's dental hygienist."  
  
I grimaced in agreement, consoling her with a snarled, "Maybe she'll get amnesia." Peyton's eye twitched momentarily. "Of course she'll get amnesia, Jake! They all get amnesia! It's the patented soap opera solution to... EVERYTHING. Since we've got seventeen seasons left, I figure we can look forward to approximately 200 cases of amnesia. Not to mention the disastrous consequences due to these aforementioned memory lapses."  
  
Languidly, I pressed the pause button. Peyton shifted closer to me, in an attempt to better immerse herself in what she must have viewed to be a burst of brilliance. "You should have warned me that I'd be attending Amnesia Palooza; then I would have done something with my hair."  
  
My throat constricted a bit, making my breathing pattern noticeably malfunction. But what the bloody hell is a MAN supposed to do with himself when the opposition insists on batting her eyelashes in his direction and crossing her legs in such a fashion that her miniskirt ascends even farther? She could have saved money by buying a micromini, instead of wasting all that energy "subtly" hiking up her clothing.  
  
"I'm more of a mud wrestling and monster truck girl myself, so I'm not exactly the queen of Amnesia Palooza hairstyles either. Alas! Brooke had to be her sweet, charming self and have no interest whatsoever in horse/feminine ass kicking power." Her hand collided with mine, as she seized the remote control once more, chuckling over my anguished sigh.  
  
"I understand Brooke's aversion to the finesse of the monster truck, but isn't mud an exfoliant?" Peyton raised an eyebrow in amazement, but politely stifled a snort, opting instead to comment about only being certain that mud was an ingredient in her favorite pie.  
  
"Did you ever suffer through this shit with Brooke?" I scooted next to her, until our thighs bumped. However, all I intended to achieve with Peyton Sawyer was a military tactic best described as intimidation. The bitch had stolen the salad bowl I had filled to the brim with popcorn during a lull (as if the entire evening hadn't been fraught with mind numbing boredom thus far) in season six, and I was determined to retrieve it.  
  
"Nah!," she snatched the heavenly munchies from my vice-like grip. "Brooke savored the soaps by herself, unless she persuaded the butler to blindfold me, drag me to her basement (kicking and screaming of course), and handcuff me to the bedpost. You're probably not the least bit curious about all of the escapades involving whipped cream and chocolate-covered strawberries that followed." Peyton's lips caressed my ear, as she whispered conspiratorially, "I was just using her for the sex."  
  
Was I the least bit curious about those escapades? HELL YEAH I WAS! Did I have any delusions about informing Peyton that her confiding in me was sending me soaring into a level of arousal that I had absolutely no idea existed? Not with her smirking like a nerd in the midst of a massive orgy of cheerleaders. Did I care that her idea of a military tactic was verbalizing every sane man's wildest fantasy? Uh....NEVER!  
  
In that instant I yearned, more than I had ever yearned for anything before, to be in that basement, to find myself sweating in that confined space as THE one and only Brooke Davis crooned kinky phrases into my ear, and Peyton Sawyer begged me, while floundering about on her bony knees, to lather her with whipped cream and feed her a strawberry. Being a member of the knight-in-shining-armor breed, I would willingly oblige, solely for the jubilation guaranteed to befall me once I shoved one of those aphrodisiacs down Peyton's perfectly formed throat and witnessed her choking upon it.  
  
I flashed her the most heartbreaking smile I could muster, valiantly forcing the resulting vomit not to form, and suavely suggested, "You're using her for sex huh? I might just have to follow your example, if we ever get around to finishing up the seventeen seasons." With a rather indignant toss of her golden tresses, season nine resumed. My opponent, I was beyond thrilled to note, refused to speak so much as a syllable to me for the rest of the eternally lengthy evening. 


	2. Knowing Good Melons

Author's Note: The WB owns One Tree Hill, but I own my fantasies involving the male stars. Hence, the following is AU, so proceed with caution if you are anticipating reading a script from an actual episode. The part about knowing "like you know about a good melon" comes from the movie When Harry Met Sally, which, if you have not seen it, rent it right now. Even if you have to run to Blockbuster in a towel, that movie is marvelous. It has the first fake orgasm scene in cinematic history. The theory from Fifth Grade was borrowed from The Day After Tomorrow, which, as far as disaster flicks go, is not wretched. Unfortunately, I do not own Twister. If I did, I'd be sitting in my mansion as I type, surrounded by naked men. Anyhoo, my version of Jake is based on the bitter one that appears later in the first season after Nikki returns. Jake and Peyton have known each other since Kindergarten and more background will follow in the next few chapters as more of the characters play a part. Thanks so much for reading. ENJOY!  
  
I suppose you're contemplating my justification for plotting the demise of one Peyton Sawyer. For what purpose, you may be asking yourself, would a guy whose deepest, darkest most secret ambition is becoming the greatest Twister player in the entire history of the universe (imagine the plethora of erotic positions the game entails) devote every spare moment to creating a personal of army of clones designed specifically to decimate HER?  
  
She was a threat to mankind. Any creature blessed with an appendage that so much as resembled a penis could be destroyed when competing against Peyton Sawyer. Sports, academics, the arts, belching the "National Anthem", any activity that defined MEN, Peyton mastered it all. She probably pissed standing up more efficiently than a guy who'd had 89 years to perfect the technique. In short, she is a caveman with tits!  
  
I will defeat Peyton Sawyer at something, ANYTHING, or my reputation will die trying.  
  
KINDERGARTEN  
  
Ms. Rivers. She was what would have once been called a fox. To this day, I wholeheartedly consent to that assessment. Beneath her low-cut blouses, leather skirts, fishnets, and combat boots, a sexual predator yearned to be unleashed. Ms. Rivers is the only teacher in North Carolina history to tempt fathers of all ages, ethnicities, and walks of life to fabricate any excuse for an immediate parent-teacher conference.  
  
On the first day of school, I became aware of the existence of Peyton Sawyer. Not exactly an auspicious beginning for my educational career. She pranced into the room, and my hackles instinctively rose. I knew, like you know about a good melon, that the mysterious curly-headed creature before me would provide nothing but misery. The only time being right blows is when your innate intelligence involves the opposite sex.  
  
Her finest attribute was the woman following proudly in her wake. Peyton's mother. The most gorgeous woman I had ever seen, in a way that contradicted any beauty Ms. Rivers possessed. Unlike the teacher's, Mrs. Sawyer's glory was of an angelic nature, instead of a lustful one. She was so elegant, so poised, so majestic. And when she smiled, you felt as if you had been offered a glimpse of heaven. Her hair fell to her shoulders, a cascade of golden ringlets. Her sapphire eyes sparkled impishly, even in the dim lighting of the classroom. And her melodious voice, if her heart-melting features went unnoticed, soothed the anxiety of myself and my fellow classmates instantaneously.  
  
She blessed me with a wink, causing me to practically kick the bucket from euphoria, and stretched a perfectly manicured finger in my direction. Peyton, who I had been in blissful ignorance about during my appraisal of her mother, plopped unceremoniously beside me, directly in the midst of the block structure I had painstakingly constructed, cooing sweetly, "Be my friend."  
  
I pushed her out of my way with a vehement "No!," which everyone else versed in the unwritten but universally understood Child's Code of Conduct would have understood meant "Get the hell out of my life forever, Bitch!", and she insisted on assuming the role of my shadow for the rest of the year.  
  
As for Ms. Rivers, cleavage though she had in spades, she had a satanic streak. She believed that Peyton tagging along behind me EVERYWHERE I WENT was 'absolutely precious,' and should be encouraged at all costs. I overheard her preaching to Peyton about embracing diligence when it came to realizing your dreams one day during lunch. I wasn't familiar with the term diligence, as it had never been discussed on Sesame Street, but I was perfectly knowledgeable about Peyton's dreams. I refused to think fondly upon Ms. Rivers after that conversation.  
  
FIRST GRADE  
  
The last day of school before the Christmas holiday. I had never given a present to a teacher before, but the older kids on my street, the ones with an extra three or four years of life experience, advised me to do so because 'it would vastly improve my grades.' They suggested an apple, since the fruit was 'so cliché no one else would even consider it as a suitable gift.'  
  
The bell sounded, and everyone else scampered off to the cafeteria for lunch, leaving me, myself, I, and my apple alone with the teacher. Chest swelled with pride, I approached her desk. Only to discover a certain curly- headed shadow had reached the target microseconds before.  
  
"It's a lovely apple, Peyton. This is the first one I have gotten since I began teaching 25 years ago." She examined Peyton's apple adoringly, as Peyton wished her a merry Christmas. Damnit! There'd be several mutilated bodies lining my street that night.  
  
"May I help you, Jake?" Apparently I wasn't as invisible as I had hoped. "N...no m'am," I stammered pitifully, shoving the apple into my back pocket, hoping against hope that I wouldn't accidentally sit on it, "I just wanted to say Merry Christmas." She clasped my hand firmly, and I blasted out of there.  
  
SECOND GRADE  
  
It would be the soccer game to end all soccer games. We were going to revolutionize the game as second graders knew it. However, as unluck would have it, Peyton Sawyer and I were on the same team. "She's the best runner, Jake. And, you're the best..." my best friend Weston Whiticker placated me lamely. He acknowledged my abhorrence of HER, but that failed to sway his opinion about NEEDING her to be on our side ALWAYS.  
  
Tensions heightened as the game progressed. Players on both sides had reached their breaking points, and Peyton Sawyer dribbled the ball down the field as easily as if she were breathing. Males twice her size and five times her weight were no match for her speed, her grace, her agility, her intimidation factor.  
  
Grimly, I maintained my station by the other team's goal, waiting for that golden opportunity to send the ball zooming into the net. It was an opportunity that, on this particular day, would never come.  
  
Peyton aimed the circular object carefully, calculating the perfect speed and strength her foot had to apply to make the shot. The trouble arose when her calculations neglected the direction of the wind. The ball sailed about two feet shy of the net, and smashed into my wrist.  
  
I'm not sure which was worse, the all-consuming agony of my bone shattering, or having to pry a sobbing, sputtering Peyton off my neck with my non-maimed arm.  
  
FIFTH GRADE  
  
The science fair. The wonders of nature. If being an aspiring Universal Twister Champion didn't come to pass, I hoped to become a scientist one day. We had worked for five months, Peyton and I, developing, researching and proving the theory that global warming would alter the course of the Northern Current, resulting in an Ice Age in the Northern Hemisphere. For five months we had remained side-by-side, peacefully if you can believe it, because she can use a hot-glue gun better than anyone else in the world.  
  
The day had arrived at last. My chance to create a legacy not only in Tree Hill, but North Carolina, and maybe in the United States. Peyton was late. The judges stalked past our table forty-five times, scowling menacingly, scribbling furiously, and inspiring me to pray, as I had never prayed before, that the school would catch on fire, that the project would be reduced to ashes and I would never again have to lay eyes upon the one that betrayed me.  
  
Two hours after the judges had disqualified us, she hobbled into the cafeteria, panting, blubbering, wailing, yanking wayward curls from her eyes and muttering, "I'm so sorry, Jake. I know this was very important to you."  
  
"You're sorry, Peyton? That's it?! You're just sorry?! We worked on this for five months! We...cooperated. We could have been something special. Strangers around the world would have praised the young geniuses Jake and Peyton."  
  
She grabbed my hand then, paling considerably, bloodshot eyes silently pleading for me to understand, "You are special, Jake. You don't need poster board and glitter to prove to everyone that you're something. You're only in fifth grade, and if you're this smart now, imagine what strangers around the world will be saying about you in ten years." "Where were you, Peyton," I spat indignantly, more angry with myself for wanting to believe the enemy than at her for not being there. Peyton's small frame quaked uncontrollably, as she slumped into a nearby chair, "My mom is sick. I had to be there for her."  
  
"Peyton, Peyton, Peyton," I tsked mockingly. "You're mom's a big girl. She doesn't need you to hold her hand. In fact, if I were your mother, I wouldn't need you, or want you around at all. I bet being stuck with you all these years has made her sick."  
  
Peyton didn't dignify me with a response. She simply dashed off into the distance, convulsing from tears and the occasional swearing.  
  
Author's Note Continued: Wow! Jake's a bit of a bastard isn't he? He'll come around. More flashbacks in the next chapter. Please review. 


	3. She Understands the Fury of Angels

Author's Note: This is from the point of view of Nathan Scott. He and Peyton were never dating, and have never been in a relationship. I thought it was time to introduce other characters, but expect more Jeyton flashbacks in the next chapter, followed by appearances from Lucas and Haley.  
  
We were perfection. Brooke and I. Tree Hill High's reining monarch and temptress. Every available opportunity fell into our laps, as if by magic, or courtesy of the endeavors undertaken by Brooke's underground corporation of assassins, every knee bowed before us, every pair of lips we deemed worthy of making contact with our asses did so promptly...and often. We were gods. Myself, the exalted captain of the basketball team, and Brooke Davis, the legendary matriarch of the Raven's cheerleading squad.  
  
Despite the overbearing entourage constantly clamoring for my attention and the awe of every male in Tree Hill who publicly, or privately (if he valued existing), praised my many attributes that had undoubtedly swept Brooke off her feet during our introduction and Brooke for indubitably being 'the epitome of lays,' I, Nathan Scott, had more depth than my ability to seize control of all events that transpired in my throne room (a basketball court), and the various techniques I had acquired over the years guaranteed to leave the ladies bellowing my name long after their children have children of their own.  
  
Nathan Scott and Brooke Davis have identities and aspirations that range far beyond the restraints of the jock strap and the pon poms. We cherish moments on the weekends that are completely removed from the stereotypical teenage vortex of vodka, flavored condoms, and deafening melodies blasting from too-close-to-imploding-for-comfort speakers. Our discussions about the future contain topics outside of satin sheets, rose petals, and birth control.  
  
We remain perfect because society depends on something, someone to be unchanging. Like the Star Spangled Banner that continued to ripple in the breeze following the final volley of musket fire, Nathan Scott and Brooke Davis will forever maintain their status as Tree Hill High's "power couple."  
  
I knew Brooke, better than I know myself. For, what components merged to form Nathan Scott? Solely that which his father, Dan Scott, local tyrant and automobile dealership owner, allotted him. Dan commanded that I pursue basketball before anything else by convincing me that my entire future was riding on my innate talents, so, I, the obedient and cowardly son, assented willingly. I suppose I am just a jock strap. Somewhere during the preparation for 'my glory days' I fell out of love with the game, and lost the passion for striving to achieve greatness.  
  
Brooke, however; had parents who were MIA since her mother miscarried five years ago, opting to delve into their work over acknowledging that one child was very much alive and vibrant and independent and intelligent and fun-loving and desperate for their acceptance.  
  
Brooke still had a dream, a vision that sustained her throughout countless parties and endless nights of purging her body of toxins, while I held her chestnut hair away from her beautiful face (caked with smudged make-up), observing helplessly as a torrent of tears cascaded ever downwards. Brooke dreamed of becoming a psychiatrist. "One day, Nate," she snuggled comfortably against my chest, "I'll be able to advise people against embracing perfection. I'll spread the gospel of the individual." "So," I cocked an eyebrow in disbelief, "you're goal is to convert individualism into the newest trend? If everyone is an individual, doesn't that mean the individuals are just following the masses?" She mock slugged me before cheekily vowing to withhold sex for the rest of our lives. Resisting my charms was an impossibility of course, exactly like our fellow Ravens appreciating this facet of Brooke's humor. Anything not related to belittling a 'nobody' was reserved for conversations behind closed doors.  
  
I knew Brooke, in an indefinable way. I had seen her form this bubbly, boozehound facade. I let her convince our world that she had changed to better serve her loyal subjects. Outwardly, Brooke was poised, fashionable, bitchy, worldly, experienced. Inwardly, Brooke had an irrational fear of squirrels. "They are part of a government conspiracy to take over the world, Nate! Don't let those bushy tails fool you."  
  
I knew about her tendency to throw tantrums with the best of them when she was four-years-old and her mother made her leave the house when she wasn't wearing a dress. Apparently one of her friends from preschool, some girl named Hillary, began a trend of dress-wearing that Brooke NEEDED to participate in. One of those telepathic challenges which is widespread among children that age.  
  
I knew Brooke would never wear shoes if her parents didn't have a rule that any staff member who failed to retrieve footwear for her daughter the instant toes were sighted. 'Shoes as if your life depended on them' was the Davis concept of proper parenting.  
  
I knew the names and personalities of each of Brooke's stuffed animals. We frequently joined them for a spot of tea and a plate of crumpets when storms raged through North Carolina. When Brooke was younger, she and her mother enjoyed tea parties every Sunday in their 'secret spot' on the Davis grounds. The tradition died along with the baby. Then money became synonymous with love in Mrs. Davis's opinion.  
  
I knew Brooke had an unhealthy obsession with All My Children. She claimed this was due to a female prerogative, but I knew the truth. The soap featured a vast quantity of gorgeous persons encouraged to err. The more heinous the atrocity committed, the more enthusiastically the audience responded. Brooke desired release from perfection.  
  
I knew Brooke, better than I know myself. Then, I became a victim of THE ACCIDENT. The most talked-about event since Karen's Café began serving 15 types of pie, and thereby putting Tree Hill on the map. My best friend Tim was behind the wheel, making out furiously with a girl he'd met 5 minutes before. Tim never understood the movements necessary for effective snogging in a vehicle. Thus, he accidentally shifted from "park" to "drive," and his Hummer roared out of the driveway of Dan's beach house (our party central for the evening) and plowed into the driver's side of my BMW as I was returning from the liquor store.  
  
It was Brooke who broke the news that fateful night. It was Dan's place, but he was adamant about giving the silent treatment to the young man who would never play basketball again, the young man who would never walk again, the young man who would be confined to a wheelchair for the remainder of his days. Brooke told me I was paralyzed, crystalline tears cascading down her cheeks, mascara running horrendously, grasping my hand as if I were her lifeline, although, just by pulling up a chair and sitting next to me throughout the night, she was mine.  
  
"Hey, Boyfriend," she croaked, cheerfully as could be managed with her cosmetic reparation utensils elsewhere. "Brooke..." I stabbed dismally at my eggs, "Shit! If breakfast is this fantastic, I can't wait until the jell- O." She sniffled uncontrollably as I held her close, ever closer. "Come here. Get into the bed with me." Mutely, she executed a few moves that professional contortionists would envy, skirted the various tubes and dials that separated us, and settled herself oh-so-gingerly against my torso. The clanks, whirring, buzzing, and humming of the machinery stifled any urge she might have had to comment about my request that she join me in the sack so soon after my near-death experience.  
  
"Nate, I..." I held up a hand to silence her before she made the speech both of us would regret. "I know you think you want to be there for me, Brooke. To hold my hand during my recuperation period, to proudly push my wheelchair around for the rest of your life, but I won't let you! You are the last person I need pitying me. Dan can handle the My-Life-Is-Ruined- Because-My-Son-Is-An-Invalid Department by himself." "But, Nate, you almost..." she interjected shrilly, clearly panicking. With all the willpower I possessed, I restrained myself from collapsing against her, succumbing to the fears for my future that were obviously consuming her. "I'm aware that I almost died Brooke. But, that doesn't mean you have to. You've struggled so valiantly to ascend to the peak of the social ladder. You will not be shoved back to the bottom rung on my account."  
  
Eyes blazing, Brooke catapulted out of the bed and charged out of the door, yelling an enraged, "If you honestly think I value popularity more than our relationship, I wish you had died in that crash!," over her shoulder. I cried myself an ocean then.  
  
I knew Brooke Davis, better than I know myself, but it took her leaving me in this wheelchair, alone in this beach house, alone in life, for me to realize that maybe I didn't know her as well as I originally thought. Day after day I am stationary by this window pondering if giving up on Brooke was a brilliant move. Could we have proven together that Brooke Davis, legendary matriarch of the Ravens cheerleading squad and myself, Nathan Scott, exalted captain of the basketball team, were perfection in a manner in which stereotypes pale in comparison? 


	4. You're the Devil in Silk Stockings

SEVENTH GRADE  
  
Wisps of shimmering curls marred the creases in her forehead. I cracked my knuckles maliciously, eyes locked on her, as she crouched in preparation for her doom. Weston snapped the football brilliantly into my outstretched arms. A microsecond later I was barreling down the field, twelve guys huffing and puffing, and blowing my house down, except not, since that isn't a requirement of football, in my wake.  
  
Suddenly! My peripheral vision acknowledged her presence, hurtling through the air, slamming me into the ground with an ear-splitting THUD. Everything got really fuzzy, dimmed, and faded away. All but the beaming countenance of THAT GIRL. Peyton Sawyer had me pinned, utterly vulnerable, hands dangling limply at my sides, as SHE hovered above me, impressively dogmatic about declining to budge.  
  
Heidi Everest, my first "girlfriend" worth claiming, looked on in disgust from the swings where she and her four best friends industriously manicured their nails, as Peyton writhed tantalizingly, until she was flush against me. No barriers separated me from the opposition. I proceeded to sweat profusely, my boxers molding desperately to my dehydrated frame in the same places as my briefs (Mom must have a slight disagreement with the dryer, causing the undergarments to contract in an unmentionable areas).  
  
Haughtily, Heidi rolled her eyes in our direction, and flounced pompously out of my life forever. Following an ever lasting two weeks of none-to- subtle cajoling, Heidi and I had achieved hand holding at long last. I had spent many a night whiling away the hours planning the heavenly moment when Heidi's lips would encounter my cheek and I would be transported instantly into Nirvana.  
  
With a miniscule tackle, Peyton had obliterated my chance with Heidi Everest. She'd screwed me over, yet again, but alas! I couldn't seem to convince myself to force her to get the hell off me. Nimble fingers danced through my hair, jarring me mercilessly back to a little thing I have dubbed 'the reality of the situation.' Peyton Sawyer was straddling me, our bodies melded together, the game had concluded minutes ago, and the bell demanded our immediate attention.  
  
"What the fuck is your problem, Sawyer?! Do you have any idea who Heidi Everest is?! She's the bloody PARAMOUNT of shagable girlfriends. You've completely slaughtered my chance to BE with her!" Violently, I clung to her hand, lusting after nothing more than hindering her exuberance over my decidedly hormonal reaction to our current position.  
  
"Jake, if you have justification for accusing me of ANYTHING it's rescuing you from any and every variety of STD known to man, AND those that haven't been discovered yet."  
  
"Holy hell, Peyton! It sounds like you and Heidi have history, which doesn't surprise me, since no one really knows what's going on in your pants. Your mother must be heartbroken that she hasn't managed to teach you shit about behaving like a girl." She yanked my arms off the ground, drawing blood as mud-clogged nails roughly penetrated my skin, and placed them securely about the alluring curves of her hips.  
  
"Remember the science fair, Jake?" I nodded dumbly, concentrating intently on the sensual tingles electrifying my fingertips. "Mom had cancer. That's why I was late. The doctor called that morning with her mammogram results. I watched Dad's courage crumble when he learned that his wife wasn't going to survive. Mom was the only one who didn't have a nervous breakdown over the whole ordeal."  
  
She wrapped her arms defensively about her shoulders, as if she could somehow reverse the past by suffocating those memories. I suppressed the carnal surge of melancholy over the deprivation of contact between us. "Her body was feasting upon itself, and she managed to discover causes for celebration until she drew her final breath. She's the kind of I heroine I aspire to be, Jake. That's why I haven't given up on you."  
  
EIGHTH GRADE  
  
Mandatory fun, the administrators called it. Mandatory horseshit would have been much more appropriate. In honor of Tree Hill's Centennial, the middle school was appointed the task of performing Romeo and Juliet, the "family friendly" version, which meant zip, zilch, and zero pelvic thrusts, and a total purging of all aspects Shakespearesque. Even peachier, it had been adapted into a musical. If you're thinking that this included Juliet mourning Romeo's bastardly behavior (not leaving a single drop of poison to aid her after), think again! One of the musical interludes consisted of tap- dancing rabbits and a parade of chipmunks, which had absolutely no textual evidence to support its occurrence.  
  
After five grueling hours of Juliet weighing the pros and cons of obeying her parents and marrying the quintessential gentleman (can you say closeted drag queen), or succumbing to her rebellious streak by running away to her grandmother's (where she met Romeo at the market, while he was stocking shelves), Juliet finally chose to consent to her parent's will. Indeed, the parental units merely had her best interest at heart. Thus, Juliet and her Romeo were able to stay friends, and an Old English classic has never been butchered so drastically, and catered to the whims of Broadway, before or since.  
  
Completely revolted, I had strummed my guitar, mentally condemning whoever had assigned me the "esteemed office" of minstrel, needing to discover heads rolling down the aisles as vindication for the abomination that was originally the Bard's masterpiece, until SHE appeared on the stage.  
  
Peyton Sawyer, clad in a form-fitting, scarlet-sleeved/skirted and golden- bodiced Medieval gown, her face painted with make-up that delicately emphasized each radiant feature, splashes of glitter shimmering across all exposed skin, and a plethora of multi-colored ribbons that held those magnificent curls in a graceful updo, portrayed Juliet with the glitz, glamour, and glory of an angel. All my musical inclination was obnoxiously squelched by the urge to gasp for breath and dramatically accost Juliet prior to proclaiming that she must divulge the secret of the real Peyton Sawyer's location. Any botched notes went undetected, as every sole in the auditorium was riveted to HER rendition of Juliet, singing sensation.  
  
The curtain had closed, cast, crew, and amateur musicians had bid a not-so- fond farewell to the staging area, and I convinced my folks that I was getting a lift home from Weston, although I actually intended to straighten out my jumbled thoughts via a nostalgic trip to the elementary school's playground. We rugged types don't play on the slide past the age of seven.  
  
SHE was relaxing beneath a tree when I arrived, inhaling, exhaling, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear. Awkwardly, I strolled over to her, clearing my throat, "You were...er...did beautifully tonight." "Thanks, Jake. I had bitchin accompaniment."  
  
Years later, I have never quite sorted out how it came to pass, but, of their own accord, my lips ventured down the path to meet hers, hands roaming haphazardly over every inch of material and creamy expanse of skin they could reach. She moaned contentedly, parting my lips ever so slightly with the tip of her tongue, subtly invading my tonsils' personal space.  
  
In that instant, all systems were on the alert, and every brain cell not drowning in the magical sensation of THE kiss had manned its battle station. Abruptly, I retreated. "Are you that much of a dumbass, Sawyer that you can't tell the difference between a gesture of sympathy and a romantic overture?" Tear drops glistened in the corners of her eyes, yet she didn't back down. I respected her resolve.  
  
"But, Jake...I thought," tremulously, she inched toward me. "That's the problem with you females," I gritted my teeth against the inevitable onslaught, "some broad passed on the ridiculous belief that women were blessed with the capacity for intelligent thought." She advanced upon me, reckless, but calculating.  
  
"That pathetic excuse for a kiss was my display of PITY for you, since your mom kicked the bucket." I dismissed her indignant sputtering and royally pissed off scowl with a wave of my hand. "By the way, you have lipstick on your teeth." Apparently, insulting the enemy's deceased relatives and application of beauty products is a surefire way to be relieved of certain appendages. Furiously, eyes narrowed to slits, vehemently snorting death threats not incoherently enough to assuage the overwhelmed gulps I was emitting, Peyton Sawyer rammed me against the fence.  
  
"IF YOU EVER MENTION MY MOTHER AGAIN," she seethed venomously, "I WILL CASTRATE YOU." For an all-too-brief moment, she loosened her grip. Alas! She seemed a trifle deranged about this need to hold me captive, not that I had any desire to move. Observing Peyton's mutation from stunning Juliet to psychotically riled-up was a tad kinky. I perspired immensely as she swiftly lifted her skirt, exposed a jewel-encrusted, leather garter, and extracted a pocket knife.  
  
Cockily, she pawed at the weapon, until the blade was clearly visible in the moonlight. "I fear, however," she studied me scathingly, "in your case, castration will prove to be impossibility." Gallantly, I withheld my murderous retort. Granted, a pocket knife provides top-of-the-line motivation. "Before you question me about the rest of the ammunition secreted within my hosiery, you should probably know that I was in Boy Scouts and am fully prepared to take you down." To my indescribable relief, the knife was returned to its proper place, and my curiosity over the remainder of her weaponry thrived marvelously.  
  
"Jake, have you ever wondered why I insist on pestering you," the lopsided grin and unexpected appearance of the million-dollar question caught me off guard. "You've gotta hankerin' for a few estrogen-induced thrills before the results of the sex change take over." Much to my sorrow, she released her grip, shook her head somberly, and floated gracefully to rest upon the dew-covered grass at our feet. "As boastful as I tend to be about realizing I finally have the engorged penis I have always wanted attached to my body, our relationship is on an entirely separate plane than my pride over my new- found genitalia."  
  
Grudgingly, I squatted beside her, blissfully ignorant of my hand that lay idle atop her thigh. "It was the first day of kindergarten, and my mom spotted you in the corner building something out of blocks. She pointed at you and said, 'Peyton, my darling girl, do you see him?' I remember nodding obediently, but being too terrified of her abandoning me, I really didn't give a damn about you. 'He,' she continued solemnly, 'he is special.'"  
  
Silence reined as she gazed at me, rapturously examining the placement of my hand. Incoherent of all else, save the hammering of my heart as she grinned companionably, I brushed a stray hair from her face. "My mom was right about everything, Jake," she grimaced excruciatingly, bounding to her feet as if I'd shoved every tree in North Carolina up her ass, "everything but you..."  
  
Author's Note: I'm completely in love with buttmunch Jake and wanna-be-Zena Peyton, but read on because Haley takes center stage next chapter. Thanks so much for reading. You guys rock! By the way, I have no idea how to allow anonymous reviews, so if any of you knowledgeable peeps can explain it to me...that would be awesome. 


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